


Interregnum

by 7PercentSolution



Series: Got My Eye on You [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Autism, Drug Addiction, Gen, Rehabilitation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-01
Updated: 2015-11-03
Packaged: 2018-04-29 08:46:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5122088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/7PercentSolution/pseuds/7PercentSolution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>and that's it for the Interregnum. On to Cold Case Guy, or when Sally met Sherlock...and it wasn't like when Harry met Sally, I can assure you! *Got My Eye on You* series continues tomorrow</p>
        </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Over the next nine weeks, Lestrade heard nothing from or about Sherlock. The silence was ominous. Christmas and the New Year came and went. It was a busy time for the Homicide and Serious Crime Division of the Met. Unfortunately, the holiday season seemed to bring out the worst in people- crimes of passion and crimes against property that tipped over into life-threatening harm. Fuelled by alcohol and greed, criminals seemed to think of this time of year as their very own special occasion.

In the meantime, between hot cases, his teams cleared up nine of the twelve cold cases that Sherlock had resurrected from the files. Apart from the suicide and the accidental death cases, one had to be closed due to insufficient evidence- both suspects identified by Sherlock as the likely perpetrators had died since the crime was committed- one in prison for another offence, the other felled by a massive heart attack. Greg felt a dim sense of justice being done in both cases; at least neither had managed to live for that long after their victim. The other cases proceeded to court and were well on their way to securing convictions. So, almost every day, the DI was reminded of the brilliance of Sherlock and that amazing Sunday they'd spent together.

He often wondered what was happening to the young man. Presumably, his brother forced him into Rehab. Perhaps, when he got out, Sherlock would try to re-establish contact, in defiance of his brother's wishes. Greg hoped so.

Today, the young man was even more in Greg's mind than usual. Detective Chief Superintendent Jackson MacDonald was now in the duty room speaking to Lestrade's team, and to the members of the Forensics teams that had been assigned to work on the cold cases.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade, I'm here to congratulate your people for outstanding work in clearing these twelve cold cases. Out of the Met's 24 Murder Investigation Teams, yours stands out as a role model, and I want to take this opportunity to note that your work has helped the Force deliver its pledge to tackle serious offenders blighting Londoners' lives. I know from personal experience how frustrating it can be when cases go cold; nothing distresses the victims, their families and the community at large more than when their police force is seen to be letting them down by not bringing the guilty parties to justice. Your initiative in not letting sleeping cases lie is commendable. Due to your leadership, justice is now seen to be done in cases that were once thought to be beyond solving. So, on behalf of the Deputy Assistant Commissioner and myself, please accept our formal congratulations on a job well done. We will be issuing a press release to this effect for tomorrow's papers."

He clasped Greg's hand in a firm shake, and smiled for the police photographer, who caught the moment for posterity.

"I can't accept the credit, Chief Superintendent. I had help in spotting new lines of enquiry and the team did the work to make it all happen."

"Of course, of course, Lestrade; it's generous of you to share the kudos. Still, it takes a certain style of leadership to bring out the best in your team and others in the force. So, no false modesty, please." He beamed and Lestrade gave an embarrassed smile.

Later that afternoon, Greg could not shake his awkward feeling- Sherlock should have had the credit. Not that the young man would have cared. Lestrade could almost hear him dismiss the whole thing as "tedious". What mattered to him was solving the crime through deduction. And, Greg couldn't tell anyone just what a role Sherlock had in the whole business. Inevitably, once they knew a civilian had helped, his superiors would want to know more. And that would lead to an addict in rehabilitation- where publicity would not be in the young man's best interests. So, he felt torn. Greg did feel, however, that his brother Mycroft should know that what he had casually dismissed as mere "puzzles" in fact had been important to the victims' families, friends and their local communities. And, he should be told before it went into tomorrow's papers.

He decided to phone the number that was still in his text history. After three rings, the same female voice answered. "Detective Inspector Lestrade, how may I help you?"

"I'd like to speak to Mycroft Holmes, please."

"That isn't possible at the moment. However, it might be possible to arrange it for later. I will get back to you shortly." Then the line went dead, leaving Lestrade glaring at his mobile.

True to form, the elder Holmes called back at the most inconvenient time- in the middle of a dinner out with Louise and her best friends, a husband and wife team from her work. She'd invited them to a local restaurant that Greg didn't particularly like- it was expensive and posh, but the food had always disappointed him.  _Better to look at than to eat_  was his verdict. The same could be said of the company. While he respected Louise's work in public relations, he found he had little in common with the overly made-up blonde and her husband, who was all in black and sporting the inevitable three day old stubble. The three were full of work-related gossip and the conversation steered into areas of social media and search engine optimisation that left Lestrade wondering what on earth they were talking about.

When his mobile started vibrating in his pocket, he pulled it out, saw the number and excused himself. His wife just rolled her eyes and shooed him away. "Police work, no doubt," she drawled to the pair. Greg went into the restaurant foyer, which was now quiet, given every table in the place was already full.

"Lestrade here."

"You rang." Mycroft kept his tone neutral and bland.

"Yes, I did. A heads up- I wanted you to know that the Met is publishing something for tomorrow's papers about the dozen cold cases that Sherlock solved on that Sunday he spent with me. You might understand a bit better the good he did then."

There was no reply. Greg decided to plough on. "How is he? I would much rather be saying this to him than to you, but I have no idea where he is. His phone has been disconnected. Is there any chance I could see or speak to him?"

There was a sigh at the other end. "Detective Inspector, I am assuming that you were intelligent enough not to mention Sherlock's role either to your superiors or to the press? Can I assume that you have shown no one that note describing his activities with you?"

Greg gritted his teeth. "Of course not. Whatever you think of me, Mr Holmes, I assure you that I have Sherlock's best interests at heart. Will you tell me where he is?"

The silence lengthened.

"I am serious, Mr Holmes, I would like to visit and to speak with him."

"That is not likely. My brother has not spoken a word since he recovered consciousness following his overdose. I have no reason to believe that he would appreciate a visit from you. He hardly acknowledges the presence of anyone now."

Greg swallowed. "Was there some sort of. ..brain damage then?" He tried to keep the horror out of his voice.

A cold tone replied. "No, nothing is physically wrong with him. He just chooses to be… uncommunicative and uncooperative."

Greg decided to risk offending the man. "Perhaps it's more a matter of  _who_  is trying to communicate with him. Maybe if it was somebody of his own choice, it would make a difference. Ask him, Mr Holmes, whether he would be prepared to see me. Will you do that?"

"I am not sure the medical team would agree with you, Detective Inspector."

"You won't know until you ask them, will you? And no matter what they say, you won't get a real answer unless you are brave enough to ask your brother whether he wants to see me."

"I will consider what you have said, Detective Inspector. Good night." And with that, the line went dead. Once again, Greg was left glaring at his phone.

oOo

Two days later, Greg was heading home after a long day at New Scotland Yard. He'd been ribbed enough by the other MIT detectives; most of it was good natured about his ambitions. Only a few seemed envious enough to accuse him of trying to show them up. It was a fine line to walk. Greg didn't want to be accused of being a 'brown-noser', sucking up to the bosses. On the other hand, when Sherlock handed him the leads, he wanted to do justice to that gift.

He was only twenty feet out of the exit to Seven Sisters tube station when he spotted the black car pacing behind him. When he glanced back, his sense of déjà vu activated. Was it stalking him the way that the car had followed Sherlock down Victoria Street? When he stopped, the passenger side front door opened, and the agent that he remembered from that occasion emerged. "You're presence is requested."

The drive took them out of London to the northwest. Neither the driver nor the agent who got in the front passenger seat spoke to Greg during the journey. He dragged his mobile out and called Louise. There was no reply.  _Probably on her way home by now_. So he texted her to say he'd been detained, and didn't know when he would be getting home apart from that it would be late.

After forty minutes, the car left the motorway and began travelling down dark unlit country roads, then made a right turn onto a single track driveway that ended at a set of impressive metal gates. There was a CCTV camera which swivelled to scan the driver and passengers, before the gates glided open. Five minutes later, they got out of the car in front of a modern low rise building. The two agents escorted Greg into a well-appointed reception area. A private clinic, he guessed, from the medical professional who greeted them at the desk.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade for Doctor Cohen," announced the agent.

He was taken upstairs and shown into an office. A moment later, the door opened and a petite woman in a white lab coat over a navy suit entered. Her short grey hair framed an open face that smiled a welcome. "Detective Inspector Lestrade, I'm Esther Cohen. I'm Sherlock's doctor here. I am so glad you could make it this evening."

He gave a rueful grin. "I wasn't given much choice."

Her smile faltered. "Oh dear, Mycroft hasn't been up to his usual tactics, has he? I was led to believe that you requested the chance to see Sherlock. Oh, I do hope this isn't under duress?"

"No, of course not. I asked to see Sherlock. I'm worried about him- have been for the past nine weeks."

She looked relieved. "Please sit down. It must have been a long day for you at work, and this is keeping you from your home. Can I offer you some tea, coffee or water?"

He thought about it; a coffee would help fight off the fatigue a while. And he was strangely nervous. "A black coffee, no sugar; that would be great, thank you." She made a call, and asked for two coffees to be brought in.

"Is it safe to say that Mycroft Holmes didn't tell you much about Sherlock's condition?"

"Only that his brother hasn't said a word since the overdose. That worries me."

The coffees arrived. As she poured some milk into hers and stirred it with a teaspoon, she replied "It worries me, too, Detective Inspector. I've been trying to treat Sherlock since he was twelve years old, and he has never been so far…out of reach before. In the past, he's been angry and rebellious about being in rehab, arguing with therapists, resisting loudly any kind of serious engagement. Now, he is just silent."

Greg took a sip of the scalding liquid and felt its warmth burn its way down into his stomach.

Esther Cohen continued, "Until this morning, that is. Mycroft arrived and went into see Sherlock. He hasn't visited much, because Sherlock generally reacts badly to his presence. This time, he told Sherlock about your telephone call, and asked if Sherlock would be willing to see you. After nine weeks of not saying a single word, Sherlock just replied as if there had been no gap at all- Yes, he'd be very pleased to see you and to know more about how the cases had turned out, the twelve cold cases and the one involving James MacArthur."

She took another sip of her coffee and then continued, "I am not sure whether Mycroft or I was more shocked at the reply. So, here you are."

Greg smiled. "I'm glad, _really_ glad."

That got him an answering smile. “So am I, detective inspector. Once he decides to start talking, there is hope." Then she sighed. “But, there are things you need to know about Sherlock. According to Mycroft, you are aware of Sherlock's autism and SPD. What you will not know is that the last nine weeks, he has been unwilling to moderate the characteristic behaviours associated with both. He's gone back to sitting in corners, rocking, stimming, all the stereotypical behaviours. He won't eat properly and he won't take his drugs orally. Everything now is via IV. He's made no eye contact at all since he got here. That's a shock to me, and to his brother. He learned a long time ago how to behave in a way that passes for 'normal' in society. Mycroft thinks he is doing it on purpose- a sort of rebellion. I think it is more symptomatic of his despair- a sort of 'if you won't let me out, I see no reason to behave' kind of depression. Unfortunately, antidepressants have made no obvious difference to that mood.”

Her face showed genuine sadness, rather than the usual bland neutrality that Greg associated with medical professionals. She continued, "You're not a doctor, but with your help we need to be able to take advantage of this breakthrough in communication to get him engaged with his recovery programme. So, I am afraid, Detective Inspector, that there are things we need you to discuss with him. Things he needs to do, if he is going to get well enough to be released. Whatever else you may say to him, those things matter the most. Do you understand what I am saying?"

Greg looked troubled at her words. "I won't do or say anything that I don't agree is in his best interests. But, if by his stay here he gets clean and stays that way when he is released, then I think that is something I am happy to help with. I guess, though, I value what  _he_  has to say about his recovery, more probably than his brother does."

She examined him carefully, and then a little smile formed. "Oh, I am pleased. You  _like_  Sherlock. Mycroft said he thought you might be using Sherlock to further your career. But, I'm not getting that from you at all. Mycroft is usually an excellent judge of character. Maybe, because it's his brother, that has blinded him a bit. That said, no one beats Sherlock at being able to read people- and he obviously trusts you, if he is willing to see you when he has ignored everyone else. Sherlock generally thinks everyone is an idiot, but he clearly wants to talk to you, and by the sound of it, to work with you. I've seen that list of cases, by the way. Mycroft showed it to me."

Lestrade looked suitably impressed. "Have you tried to convince Mycroft Holmes that case work is something worthwhile for his brother to do? Or is he still blaming me for leading Sherlock into temptation?"

She tilted her head and replied with a supressed smile. "Mycroft Holmes is not immovable. He will change his mind in the light of new information. He wouldn't last long in his job if he didn't. To hear his report, the medical team at St Thomas' Emergency Department credit you with saving his brother's life. Which, by the way, is probably why he took your call, and why you are here. If you really want to save Sherlock's life, then you'll get in there and convince him to do what is needed to get out of here- to start talking, and start co-operating. Without that, Mycroft won't change his mind."

Greg returned the smile. "They are both stubborn; must make it hell to have to intermediate."

"That's where you've been helpful, Detective Inspector. You've already had a beneficial effect on Sherlock, and I am not just talking about getting him talking again. He ate a breakfast and lunch today, when I showed him that his low blood sugar levels would mean that he'd probably faint when he got up to see you. I got him to do that because he insisted on meeting you in this office. So for the first time in nine weeks, he got himself out of bed and dressed. I don't think he wants you to see him as being ill. Sherlock raises his game for you. Mycroft will have noticed that fact. And Sherlock will have to continue doing so, if he wants to get out of here."

Lestrade considered her words. "So, leaving here isn't up to Sherlock?"

She raised her eyebrows at the question. "No, he's been sectioned under the Mental Health Act because of his suicide attempt. Unless he can convince us that he is no longer a threat to himself, he's here for as long as it takes."

That sobered Greg's mood. "Something I was told at the hospital- this wasn't his first attempt. What happened previously?"

Esther folded her hands in front of her. "You might ask Sherlock that same question. He's never answered me when I've asked it. And he has not spoken about this latest attempt either, so your guess is as good as mine, perhaps even better, as you were with him in the days running up to it. So, I will turn the question around- why do you think he did it?"

Greg thought about that. It wouldn't be betraying any confidences; after all, Sherlock had put it in a letter that he assumed would be used in public. "He said in his letter to me that it was to do with his brother not allowing him any freedom to do what he wanted to do- which, by the way, is to work on cases like the ones he had considered the weekend he stayed with me."

"Could it really be that simple?" she seemed puzzled.

"Yeah, maybe it is that simple. Maybe it's time to listen to what he has to say and let him do it. If that's what it takes to keep him off the streets and free of drugs, then I'd say that's a successful therapy. I know his brother is sniffy about this work, but, well, you know what I'm going to say. It's my life; I do it because it's something that needs to be done, for the good of society. I'm not the world's greatest detective, Doctor Cohen, but that young man just might be, if anyone apart from me will give him a chance to prove it."

The grey haired woman nodded. "Let's hope you're right. You've earned the right to try, so I will go get him."


	2. Chapter 2

"Took you long enough." There was a hint of reproach in that tone that made Greg smile in embarrassment.

"Yeah, well, your brother can be a scary son of a bitch. I had to have a reason to speak to him- and the Met's press release was the excuse I needed." He tossed the newspaper to Sherlock, who caught it.

"Page four."

He watched as Sherlock sat down and opened the paper with avid interest. He scanned the article in seconds, and then sniffed. "Not enough detail. The press are useless- just go for the sensational stuff." He rolled his eyes in disgust. "Lestrade, I want chapter and verse on every one of those cases, included McArthur's."

Greg saw past the bravado and recognised how thin the young man was. Those cheekbones were even more pronounced now than the last time he saw him. There was both fragility and fervent intensity to his gaze. Then he remembered that Doctor Cohen had said Sherlock had not made eye contact since he'd arrived at the clinic. Well, Sherlock was looking straight at him now, with expectation.

So, Greg started to tell him exactly what had happened on each of the cases. The young man occasionally interrupted to ask a question or probe more deeply into some aspect. The fourth case, involving the death of an old lawyer which had been originally thought to be a hate crime, had proved particularly challenging. Sherlock was dismissive of the murder team's re-investigation.

"For God's sake, Lestrade, you really need to find a better team. I gave you the biggest lead ever- look for a serrated knife in the younger son's attic. What more did you need?"

Greg just smiled gently. "We aren't all gifted with your deductive capacities, Sherlock. Be a little more tolerant of normal mortals." He decided to take the chance to steer the conversation in the direction it needed to go. "Of course, if you hadn't done something stupid, you'd have been there alongside us to tell us where we were going wrong."

That wiped the enthusiasm off of Sherlock's face. "Well, that was then; this is now, do carry on with the other cases."

Lestrade wouldn't be deflected. "No. Not until you tell me what was going on. Last time I saw you, it was on a Walworth rooftop after you solved the McArthur case. Trouble was, you'd done something so stupid that you didn't even have time to solve the case properly."

That earned him an affronted glare. "What do you mean? What did I get wrong?"

"McArthur was involved in the VAT scam; you were right about that. But you were in such a rush that you didn't chase down the other partner- the site manager was in it up to his eyes, too. That took us quite a while to figure out, because we didn't have your genius on the team. So, next time you contemplate that little exit plan, do me a favour and give me a call first? Could have saved us all a lot of time and hassle. And, who knows? If you'd done the smart thing, you might have avoided this place, too."

Sherlock had the grace to look a little sheepish at first, then rather pensive. He sighed. "You forget; I had a fraternal veto to deal with".

"Stuff Mycroft." That made Sherlock look up  in surprise. Greg carried on. "Don't use your brother as an excuse. The only person putting you in here is you. Same goes for keeping you in here. If you want out, you know the drill. It's not like you aren't smart enough to figure it out." He was playing this as coolly as he could. He just hoped it was the right tone to take.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed a bit, as if he was considering whether Greg was having him on. "Continue, Lestrade- there are five more cases to tell me about."

Greg just leant back in his chair and crossed his arms. "Why does it matter so much to know what happened?"

"Because my brain is rotting in here, and you are giving me the first chance in nine weeks to actually use it."

"What would it mean if I could get you more?"

Sherlock looked a little suspicious. "More…what? Cases? You can't be serious- Mycroft would refuse permission." He gestured at the office. "This may look all nice and cosy, but I can assure you that my hospital room has electronic locks on it and they won't even let me have access to the internet here. And, of course, there is a daily diet of useless drugs that do nothing but slow me up and make it impossible to concentrate on anything meaningful."

Greg considered this last point. "Doesn't seem to be bothering you at the moment."

This drew the hint of a smirk in reply. "That's because last night I convinced them to stop the IV, and then fooled them this morning into thinking I had taken the tablets. I don't need the drugs when I've got brain work."

"What, not even the cocaine?"

"I'm not an addict. I can stop anytime."

"Then why haven't you?"

"Because I haven't had a reason worth stopping for."

"Is that why you talked yourself into the overdose?"

"I decided I no longer wanted to be me, isn't that sufficient cause?"

"No, you have to explain it. I'm not a mind reader, because this isn't the first time, so I've been told. If I am going to involve you in my cases, I need to know the worst, Sherlock. It's only fair. You're able to deduce everything about me, so give up something about you, if you expect me to trust you."

That got him another glare. "Being handed the solutions to your cases on a silver platter isn't good enough?"

Greg just glared back. "No, actually, it isn't. It's highly unusual to bring a civilian into case work, so I need to know I can trust you, otherwise the deal is off."

"What deal?"

"Just answer the bloody question, Sherlock and I might bother to tell you."

Sherlock looked away, and gave a little sigh. "You have no idea, Lestrade, what it's like to be me. I can tell you how many cracks there are in the ceiling of my room here, catagorised by length and estimated date of origin. I can tell you who is walking down the corridor to visit another patient, their sex, their age and whether they are carrying anything- it affects their pace, which changes the sound. I'm so bored I play games trying to guess what they are carrying- is it a plant, newspapers or magazines? Or something heavier? Perhaps some books, although that’s unlikely because the drugs they give patients here make it hard to concentrate on anything longer than a couple of pages. Did you know that the third ceiling light from the nurses' station on my floor will need replacing in about three days; its buzz is growing noticeably different from the other florescent tubes along the corridor. They changed the laundry service three weeks ago; the new company uses an old fashioned, non-biological soap powder which means that the sheets no longer itch and irritate me to the point where I had to occasionally sleep on the floor. There it becomes a war between my nose which hates the smell of the disinfectant they use to clean it and my skin which cannot stand the rasp of sheets washed in biological detergents.”

He was in full spate, the flood of deductions coming in rapid fire just like at a crime scene. It made Greg realise that from Sherlock’s point of view, there probably wasn’t much difference between this institution and a crime scene.

The young man was now looking up at the ceiling as he continued the litany: “It’s not just me. The patient four doors down on the right from my room suffers from night terrors, which annoy the night team; they've been known to drug him to shut him up. They try to deal with my hypersensitivity in the same way, with anti-anxiety drugs that only make things worse. I can tell you that the nurse who changes my IV drip every morning is frustrated that her husband is cheating on her, but she doesn't realise that it is because his mistress is pregnant with a child, the child she can't have.”

The grey green eyes slid across Greg’s face for the briefest of moments while a breath was drawn. "Shall I go on? I can tell you that your wife is still irritating you about your smoking; she's probably now complaining that your clothes smell of cigarette smoke, and she's moved her entire wardrobe to another closet, hasn't she? And she's stopped ironing your shirts, too, so she's been promoted and making enough money in PR to send your shirts out to be laundered and pressed."

Greg just huffed and said "get to the point, Sherlock."

"But that  _is_  the point! I can't turn this off- there is never any relief. The data just pours in, and it's totally _useless_. It makes me anxious and I can't think straight, because there is nothing to be  _done_  with it all. There is just no point to it. I told you before, cases are different; they allow me to focus, to actually use my brain, instead of hating what all this data is doing to me. So, when you hand me twelve cold cases, I finally see some light at the end of the tunnel, but, hold on, because here comes Mycroft to lock me up and say I will never, ever get a chance to really use my brain for the only thing that it is good at doing. No wonder I get depressed- there's no reason to  _want_  to carry on."

"Would working on cases be a reason?"

"Yes, of course." He made direct eye contact.

Greg leaned forward, his hands on his knees. "Then prove it, Sherlock."

Sherlock broke the eye contact and sighed. He raised both hands in surrender and said quietly, "We both know it isn't going to happen. Mycroft won't let me. He will keep me in here until my brain actually does rot away. You have no idea what the last nine weeks has been like."

There was real despair in those words, and they wrenched something loose in Greg. But rather than succumb to pity, he used his anger to focus his response. "As you like to say, that was then, this is now. If I were able to convince Mycroft to let you have some cold cases in here, and you really applied yourself to ...whatever the hell it is that they want you to do in here in terms of therapy, would you stick to it? Would you?"

Sherlock looked puzzled. "You're trying to… negotiate with me?"

"Yeah, I figure this is a little like a hostage situation. I'm going have to negotiate the terms of your release with your brother. It won't be easy. But first I have to know whether you can actually deliver your side of the bargain."

"Why would you do that? Why would it matter to you?"

"Because all this…you being like this…it's such a bloody waste. It pisses me off that you would be so stupid as to destroy any chance of doing what you are obviously good at doing. And, I was angry about what I found on the rooftop of Peabody Buildings. I'm still angry with you.  _Don't ever do that again._ Not while you're working with me. Not on my watch, Sherlock. I mean it. You do what you have to in order to get out; you'll start clean, you'll stay clean and then I will involve you in cases that are worth that brain of yours. But, break the rules, and it's game over."

Sherlock sat, his face impassive for a moment, then he frowned. "You won't be able to convince Mycroft." He shook his head, his shoulders slumped and the light seemed to go out of his eyes. He looked away, resigned.

Greg wasn’t going to accept it. "You just leave him to me. Provided you are willing to actually deliver, then I'll do my part." He waited as Sherlock thought it over. The older man carried on; he wanted no misunderstanding. "You have to want this,  _really_  want it- more than anything else, Sherlock. If you don't, then let's just call it quits, and I'll leave you to the kind ministrations of the staff in this place."

Sherlock glared at the DI, who put on a stern voice. "Don't think of this as a 'get out of jail free' card; it's going to cost you. You'll have to clean up your act, rent a flat, eat and sleep properly, behave yourself so you don't get evicted again. No joke. But, if you want the case work enough, I think you can do it."

There was a long silence, a sort of stand-off between the two of them. Finally, the young man leaned forward, looked Greg straight in the eye, and said quietly. "Yes, I can and I will; I promise."

Relief flooded in, bringing out a smile on Greg’s face.

Sherlock then asked, "do you  _really_  think you can convince him?" He didn't sound optimistic.

"I'll give it my best shot."

Then Sherlock sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. With more than a hint of a smile- the first real one that the older man had seen since Sherlock walked in- he said, "Can I be a fly on the wall when you meet with Mycroft?"

"No- piss off. That's between me and him."


	3. Chapter 3

Greg balanced the two cups of take-out coffee in one hand as he fished out his ID to swipe in through New Scotland Yard's security gates at reception. He'd got home late last night; Louise was already asleep and he tried not to wake her. He left before she was up- police had an earlier start than PR, so he routinely was up and out even before she got out of bed.

As he walked down the corridor to his office, he considered the previous night's events. He wondered how long it would take for his discussion with Sherlock to get back to his brother, and what would be relayed about it. He hoped that Sherlock would wake up this morning without regrets about his agreement. If he could show that he was willing to respond to Doctor Cohen and the other staff at the clinic, then just maybe Lestrade could help him get better. But, he still had to convince Mycroft Holmes.

As he opened the office door, he realised that it was already occupied. He smirked. "Good morning, Mr Holmes. I hope you didn't accept anyone's offer of coffee – the Yard's machine stuff is ghastly. I went to the trouble of getting you one when I got mine."

As he came around his desk to face Mycroft, he put down the two coffees. "You have your choice between black and no sugar, or one with milk. My guess is that you would prefer sugar but are trying to do without."

"Detective Inspector, how very kind." The elder Holmes was observing Greg. "You'd prefer the black coffee, I am sure."

Mycroft removed the plastic cap from the coffee with milk and brought it closer, for an exploratory sniff. "Kenyan Peaberry coffee. So, you frequent the Mozzo coffee bar on Tothill Street."

"I'm not even going to ask how you know; my guess is that Sherlock isn't the only one in your family who sees things that most people miss."

Greg settled himself in his chair and had a pull at his own coffee, but his eyes did not leave the face of the immaculately dressed younger man in the chair opposite. He waited. He needed to know what tack Mycroft was going to take, before deciding how to press Sherlock's case.

"Oh, I have help, Detective Inspector. For obvious reasons, you have been under surveillance for some time. It is only sensible to collect data before this discussion, which I hope you will admit is a rather civilised approach to a…hostage negotiation. A remarkable use of the phrase, I must admit."

Greg had guessed that it was likely his conversation with Sherlock last night would be monitored. Whilst he expected Doctor Cohen would be listening in, he wasn't sure if Mycroft would.

"At least it got his attention."

"Oh, and it got mine, as well, I can assure you. It does raise an interesting question. You have denied that your interest in Sherlock is due to your wish to further your career. But, it is not clear what your motivations really are. So, before I can even begin a discussion with you, I need to know that."

"You heard what I said to Sherlock- I hate the waste."

"What you told him and what the truth is could be very different. There are many reasons why a man of your age could be...interested… in someone like Sherlock." He left it unsaid, but Lestrade suddenly picked up on the undercurrent.

He stifled a snort. "Relax, Mr Holmes, I am a happily married man, and not inclined that way, if you are implying what I think you are implying. I meant what I said. I hate the waste of talent. Maybe I take it personally, too. I don't want to see my nephew Sam end up on a building roof someday thinking about suicide, the way Sherlock has. And there are professional reasons, too. I don't expect you to get it, but I do love my job. I am reasonably good at it. I think it is a ‘good thing’, something worthwhile. But I suppose like any ordinary journeyman, when I meet a master, it makes me sit up and take notice. Your brother is brilliant, an absolute genius, and I respect that. What he likes doing with that genius is solving cases, and he does it better than anyone I know or will ever know. So, yeah, when that goes off the rails, I get pissed off about it."

Greg took another pull of coffee, hoping the caffeine would kick in and sharpen his thinking. "As annoyed as I am that Sherlock would do something as stupid as drugs, and even more irritated that he would try to kill himself, I am also worried that  _you_  don't seem able to stop him from doing those things. So, forgive me, Mr Holmes, but I am going to stick my neck out and see if I can help."

Mycroft was watching him, carefully, but giving nothing away. Greg realised that he was in the presence of someone who did this as a living- negotiation and political manoeuvring. The man might be a decade younger than Greg, but he wore his responsibilities, rank and privilege as easily as his three piece suit. The DI decided he had no choice but to press on.

"So, just what have you got against Sherlock working on cases? You once implied that you thought it led him to temptation. But he did drugs long before he did case work. And, if Doctor Cohen is to be believed, he tried to take his own life before when rehab didn't work- again, before he got involved in what you so patronisingly dismissed as 'puzzles'. So, what's the real worry?"

"My brother does not understand personal risk, Detective Inspector. He will put himself in harm's way repeatedly in an attempt to prove how clever he is. The adrenaline of solving crimes is something he enjoys, with little regard to his own well-being. He will not be content with desk work. That attitude is likely to get him killed. He's already proven that with that banker business."

"Pursuing criminals must be preferable to chasing his next hit, wouldn't you say? Forget about the social benefits, as I am sure Sherlock would; it's a damn sight safer than being high and living on the streets, not to mention getting so annoyed with you that he tries to top himself."

"Not doing anything of the sort would be safer still." There was a look of steel in those dark blue eyes now, and he set his coffee down on the desk.

Lestrade was running out of arguments.

Mycroft steepled his hands under his chin and contemplated the DI. "My brother could've been a Noble Prize winning chemist, if he wanted to be. He could also have been a professional classical violinist. He has the talent to be almost anything he wanted to be. But, you're telling me he wants to be …a private detective." There was an obvious distain in his use of the phrase.

It irritated Greg enough to snap, "Yeah, I am. And before you dismiss it as beneath him, for once, listen- really listen- to what your brother is saying. You heard it last night. He _wants_ this. Enough to do whatever is necessary. Has he ever shown that degree of commitment to  _anything_  before? Could it be that you are just being a snob about this? By stopping him you've backed him so far into a corner that the only way out is to kill himself. Geez, what other proof do you need to know that he really wants to do this?"

Mycroft did not answer. Greg felt frustrated. He was sure that the elder Holmes would have considered all these things. Clearly, he was intelligent; one didn't get to his position at his age without being shockingly bright. So, Greg couldn't figure it out. He took another sip from his now tepid coffee.

And then the truth came to him, in a flash. "You've already offered him case work, haven't you? Just with your service, backroom stuff, a desk job as a kind of analyst. And he's turned you down, hasn't he? Oh, my, now I get it- you want to keep him under your wing, and he's having none of it."

An eyebrow arched on Mycroft's otherwise inscrutable face. "Perhaps I have underestimated your intelligence, Detective Inspector Lestrade. Yes, you are correct. An offer was made and declined. Well, I say declined, although totally ignored is probably the more accurate description."

"How old is Sherlock?"

The question seemed to surprise Mycroft. "Twenty-five. I don't see the relevance of the question."

Greg stifled a smile. "Any twenty five year old would rather not work for a family member. And you're his brother, not his father, so he'd resent it even more. Because he is what he is, he will be even more determined than most to show that he can be independent. It's not surprising that he turned you down. You shouldn't take it personally."

"He isn't capable of living independently, because of what he is. That much he has proven since he left university."

"Well, maybe that's because he hasn't found sufficient reason to stay clean and look after himself. If he wants the case work enough, he will do it. I have faith, Mr Holmes."

"With respect, Detective Inspector, you have very little experience of working with my brother, and even less of how well he can manage his own affairs."

"If he proves it by doing what is necessary to get out of that clinic, will you let him try this? I am prepared to keep my eye on him, as well as keep him busy with casework."

"Why would you do that?"

There was a sense of déjà vu for Greg, as he thought back to Sherlock's surprise last night, and his use of almost the same phrasing of the question. It made Greg wonder just what the hell the Holmes brothers' home life must have been like, that they would both be so suspicious. He realised that Mycroft was having trouble shaking off his worries about motivations, but he guessed he'd be as protective of Sam if he was in Sherlock’s position.

"As I've said, I hate the thought of that talent going to waste. And, as he seems prepared to take it from me, I am willing to give him a steer once in a while. It would be only fair, given that it's my team that will benefit."

"You overestimate his ability to get on with others; he will disrupt your team, alienate everyone on it, you included, in short order. It won't last, and then he will be worse than back to square one."

Greg lost it. "Christ, give him a bloody chance! It can't get any worse than him trying to kill himself!"

It was as if he had slapped him. Mycroft Holmes looked shocked for a split second, before the mask slipped almost instantly back into place.

Greg decided that he had to make his point in a way that could not be misunderstood. He leaned forward, arms on the desk. "He's already shown you that he won't play it your way. Maybe this is just the challenge he needs to get himself sorted. And as for your idea that he will be too 'high maintenance' to handle, well, I've already seen some of that on the weekend when he was coming off cocaine. I handled that OK. So did he. As for my team, well, they are my team and they will do what I bloody well tell them to do. Because of Sherlock, that team now has one of the best reputations in the Yard. Time they met the reason why. I can't imagine he'd have been the most popular boy in the schoolyard. I've watched my own nephew deal badly with that kind of bullying. So, if he's prickly to others, then I get that. I will protect my team, and I will protect him. I am a patient man, Mr Holmes. I've already demonstrated that, so you don't need to question my motives further."

Silence fell in the office. Mycroft put his coffee down, and then stood, pulling his jacket into line again. He picked up the briefcase and furled umbrella beside the chair. He then stopped for a moment, looked Lestrade in the eye and said quietly, "I will consider what you have said, Detective Inspector, and I may get back to you. Good day."

Greg watched him leave the office.  _I've given it my best shot, Sherlock. Let's hope it's enough._

oOo

A week later, he got his answer. He took a call on the way back from a crime scene. It was Doctor Cohen.

"Good afternoon, Detective Inspector Lestrade. Would you be prepared to come out to the clinic tomorrow with a couple of cold cases?"

He smiled. "Yes, of course, as long as Mycroft Holmes has agreed."

She laughed. "It was an interesting discussion, but I do believe this is the first time I've ever seen the Holmes brothers agree on something- that you are a pretty amazing hostage negotiator. And, for the record, I agree with that conclusion, so I am looking forward to seeing you tomorrow."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that's it for the Interregnum. On to Cold Case Guy, or when Sally met Sherlock...and it wasn't like when Harry met Sally, I can assure you! *Got My Eye on You* series continues tomorrow


End file.
